


Smack It

by Janissa11



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:32:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean and jeans, for Kunju.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smack It

The minute we were done, it started.

"Gotta get me some jeans, dude."

The only other person who'd ever have understood how my heart sank, hearing that -- well, Dad was gone, dead, hanging out with Mom somewhere in the great beyond. But trust me on this: Dad? Would have already been thinking about escape.

I didn't really have that luxury. "You have other jeans," I said, without much hope.

He made a sound that my brain translated from Dean-speak into "not even."

"We're broke, man. We can't afford new jeans. You have expensive taste."

"This body? Deserves the best. Plus it's plastic. Mr. Eloy Echevarria will barely even feel it."

I finally looked at him, and saw him smirking exactly like I already knew he'd smirk. "Dean, you have four other pairs of jeans. Wear THOSE. Besides, we don't have time -"

"Won't take long," Dean said airily.

I wanted to climb out of the car, place my head beneath a wheel, and let it roll over me a few times. "You say that now."

"Relax. Piece of cake."

* * *

See, what people don't get about my brother -- well, okay, let me back up, there are way too many things people don't get about Dean, and I'm one of them -- but ONE thing people don't get, all right, is the shopping.

I lived with Jess for just over a year, practically lived with her six months before we made it official, and I went shopping with her a lot. Not ALL the time, but enough, right? And she was, obviously, a woman, and she liked to shop. It was not necessarily my favorite thing to do. I'm a guy, I like to know what I need, go to a place where I know I'll be able to find it, and GET IT. Jess did the comparison-shopping thing. Mildly annoying, but I dealt.

Dean, though. He's --

"Oh baby. Come to PAPA."

Naturally, he'd picked a pair of jeans that cost enough to fund a small country's gross national product for a year. I saw the pricetag and nearly fainted. Dean, on the other hand, looked so pleased he GLOWED. Holding up the jeans, narrowing his eyes, smirking at himself in the mirror.

"Oh yeah," Dean crooned. "What I had in mind."

"Dean," I said uneasily under my breath. "People are looking at you."

"Damn straight they are. Thinkin', 'Man, can't wait to see THOSE babies on that fine all-American ass.'"

"No," I said between gritted teeth, "I think they're wondering when you're due for your medication."

"Whine all you want, Mr. Flat-Ass." Dean gave me a shrug that would have done a sixteen-year-old cheerleader proud, and then beamed at the two women standing there staring. "Gimme five," he told them. "Show's about to start."

"DEAN. For crying out loud!"

"Talk to the hand, Sammy." He flounced into the dressing room.

"My ass is NOT flat!"

Now they were staring at me. I waved. They didn't wave back.

* * *

See, that's what Dad would have understood, and nobody else but me. Because Dean takes his jeans seriously. Seriously, like, gun-serious. Cleaning your weapons-serious.

It wasn't like he didn't have other pairs of jeans. Work jeans, crap jeans. But we'd had to haul ass last night with the woogle-ur, and he'd been wearing The Jeans. The expensive jeans, the pick-up-girls jeans, the company jeans if Dean were suitable for civilized company, which -- define your version of civilized and I'll get back to you.

So The Jeans were ruined -- no wash would take that stink out, plus I had to admit no jeans sewed up all that well after being ripped to shreds. And that meant buying new ones, and, well, there we were.

And here he was.

"Oh. Don't you just wanna SMACK that."

There are…few more embarrassing things in this world than having to stand there while your brother admires his posterior in a mirror. VOCALLY admires, I might add. Maybe more embarrassing situations exist. Possibly. But I sure as hell couldn't think of any at that moment, and the way the two girls were giggling and shaking their heads while Dean shook his ass FOR HIMSELF, they couldn't, either.

"Dean." I was pretty sure that was Dad's voice right there. "Just buy the damn things, okay? Let's go."

"Not so fast, there, champ." He preened some more. Pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes. "Huh."

"What," I said dully.

"Just -- not quite right. You think?"

KILL ME NOW. "They're perfect," I said, staring at the ground. "Couldn't be better."

"But not as good as The Jeans." Dean did some more lip-pursing, and then shook his head. "Not PERFECT."

People just don't get it. This is what I'm saying. Why Dean used to say, "Jeans shopping," and Dad would reach for the Wild Turkey.

Wild Turkey sounded really excellent about now.

* * *

We started the Quest For Dean's New Jeans at 10:00 am sharp.

We finished at 8:30 pm.

The next day.

The pair he finally chose was, ironically I guess, one of the cheaper pairs. Cheap in a sort of relative way, since we could have rented a cheap motel room for a week on what they cost, but -- relatively speaking.

They looked fine. Not that much different from the substandard regular jeans he'd been wearing while we shopped.

Dean flounced so much in the new The Jeans, he nearly fell over.

"Dean," I finally growled. "If you say 'smack it!' one more time --"

"Quit your whining, and let's go out."

"Promise me one thing, Dean. As your brother. As your sole, younger, devoted brother."

"Dude, WHAT?"

"Don't wear those hunting."

"Dude, The Jeans are saved for only the best of venues."

"PROMISE me."

"I promise, man. Relax."

He leaned over the dresser and we both heard that long, low "riiiipp."

"Aw, FUCK."

* * *

People don't get it. And I guess that's okay. I suppose there are worse things to do in life than follow your older brother from shop to expensive shop in a huge mall, watching him (or not) trying on fifteen dozen pairs of jeans. And proclaiming the beauty of his own ass each time he did it, too.

Dad had the right idea with the Wild Turkey, though.

****

END


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